


Lothbrok

by WingsMadeOfTin



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Crack, Humor, Vikings, priest on a rope, servitude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsMadeOfTin/pseuds/WingsMadeOfTin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan has been captured by a fierce, terrible, bloodthirsty viking warrior.</p><p>...<br/>Probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lothbrok

 

Lagertha took one look at him and said, "Oh, not again."

 

  

It had been a long and terrifying journey, since the viking men descended upon Lindisfarne and destroyed all that Athelstan knew.  He did not know what possessed him to blurt out Old Norse at the men, but he suspected it was the only thing that saved his life.   

_Saved, but to what ends?_

Yes, that would be the question. 

The boat had been cold, rocking and lurching over the waves, sea-spray constantly in his face.  His stomach was in a constant knot, threatening always to rebel against him.  His hands had been bound in coarse rope, and he hurt all over, and his brothers were dying around him (those who had not yet been slaughtered), but most of all Athelstan had been afraid.

The one they called Ragnar, Ragnar Lothbrok, did not stop looking at Athelstan nearly the entire journey.  Anytime he had dared to glance, he found blue eyes that could almost be called violet, staring back at him, paired with a self-satisfied smirk.  He felt like a meal presented on a great table, the way Ragnar looked at him.  Only he did not think that the viking meant to eat him. 

Far worse than that.

Any time Ragnar strayed within reach he would _touch_ : a tousle of Athelstan's hair, or a pet, or a pat to his cheek.  Always with that pleased, amused expression.  _You are mine,_ Ragnar's eyes said, in every glance and stare.  _You are a thing that is mine, now._

And so he was afraid.  

He was a monk, but he was not utterly sheltered.  He had traveled, and his ears were ever open to the stories of the world.  His eyes were open as well, and the way things looked, Athelstan was being carried to a foreign land to be a slave.  To be forced into servitude not to God, but to one of these barbaric, shield-thumping men.

And if he could read people at all, Ragnar had every intention of keeping him.

 _A bed-slave._   The very idea was so far out of Athelstan's range of experience that he lacked any sort of reference in which to place it.  Would he be kept tied to a bed?  Chained on a mat?  What did these vikings sleep on, anyway?  Piles of hay?  Would he be used by Ragnar exclusively, or passed around to his brothers-in-arms like a toy?  Or should he throw himself overboard now, and save himself the shame and misery and sin?

He didn't want to die.

 _Coward._   

He had only huddled deeper into himself, tried to ignore the way the men would chuckle whenever Ragnar's hand found itself in Athelstan's hair, under his chin, on his shoulder.  Forever _touching_ , this man!  

And then, the shore.

And then, the farm.

As horrific as it was to be led around by a rope leash, tugged hither and tither like some recalcitrant lamb, still he felt a deeper dread when they arrived at Ragnar's home.  _This is it,_ Athelstan thought.  _My life as a slave begins._   His imagination had taken the chance of the long walk to dream up any number of horrors, offering up such things as whippings and molestation and starvation and beatings for no reason but that it pleased his new master.  He was deep in despair when the sounds of children reached him, making him look up.

Ragnar had tethered him -- _tethered_ him! -- to a post, and two golden children, a boy and a girl, had come out to greet their father.  At Ragnar's encouragement they approached Athelstan with little hands, touching his robes, making him bend until they could inspect his hair, poke at the bald tonsure of his holy order.  

And then the wife came outside and said, "Oh, not again."

"My wife, Lagertha," Ragnar finally introduced, walking up to the woman and sweeping her into a deep kiss.  "My children," once his mouth was free again, "Bjorn and Gyda.  Everyone, this is Athelstan."

 _Not again?_ He could only take that to mean that there have been slaves before, perhaps a long string of servants and bed-slaves and workers.  He saw none, currently, but perhaps they were out working the fields or chained to piles of hay or beaten dead in a ditch somewhere _oh sweet Jesus he was going to die._

"At least it is a human this time," the boy, Bjorn, said moodily.  He poked at Athelstan's belly, scowling.  

"… A human?" his stomach twisted.  What could that mean?  _This time?_ Ragnar had brought home… non-human slaves?  Did Ragnar lie with beasts?  He shot a horrified look over to the man, his opinion of him having to shatter and reform into something even worse.  He may as well have had horns and cloven feet, at that point.

"Bring him in!"  Ragnar gestured to the children, who take Athelstan's rope (Gyda, the girl, and she was very gentle with it, for which he and his neck were very grateful) and lead him into the little house.  "I want him to meet the babies!"

He nearly tripped at the threshold, blinking into the darker atmosphere.  There were lamps burning cheerily; it gave the house a cozy sort of warmth.  "Babies?" he echoed.  Lagertha sighed, a sound of long-suffering, and put her hands to his shoulders to guide him into a chair.  

"Ugh, look at you," she murmured, plucking at his hair, smoothing out a section of his robes.  "This is just like him."

"I don't believe I understand what's going on anymore," Athelstan said, feeling very honest right then.  

"My husband," she replied, "has a thing for bringing home adorable strays."  She cut a glance over to the left, where Ragnar was sitting himself onto the floor and whistling.  Gyda gave Athelstan the end of his own lead rope and hurried to move a short, sturdy looking barrier that had been fencing off a part of the house.

Immediately, what looked like no less than a dozen roly poly balls of fur stampeded over to Ragnar.  It was a herd of kittens.  A herd of tiny, fluffy, mewling kittens, and they quickly took to climbing over Ragnar, up his legs and tumbling into his lap, tiny tails whipping around, itty pink noses and wide eyes and…

"What," Athelstan said.  And then again, "What."

"Adorable strays," Lagertha said again, and pet his hair.  "A pregnant cat, that time.  Before it was pups.  Before then, piglets.  Once we housed flying squirrels.  He cannot resist when he finds cute things."

"Lothbrok," Bjorn nodded.  "Didn't you wonder about Lothbrok?  Father has that nickname for a reason."

Lothbrok.  _Furry pants?_

Ragnar beamed at them from the floor.  Covered in kittens.His clothes, indeed, already had a fine layer of shed fur.  Gyda crouched at his side, giggling, to play with a few of the cats.  One tiny white kitten was climbing up the viking warrior's long braid.  A larger cat, the mother, had strolled out lazily to blink at them all from Ragnar's side.

"He is a barbaric, ruthless viking raider," Athelstan said weakly.

"Keep telling yourself that, if it helps," Lagertha suggested.  She pet him one last time and picked up one of the kittens, a little black thing with white paws, that had wobbled their way.  She deposited it in Athelstan's lap, where it began to gnaw on the rope that served as his leash.  It looked up at him, blue blue eyes and a wet nose, and meowed.

 


End file.
